


len’alas lath’din, the kids are alright

by Suaine



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Acceptance, Depression, Fear of Death, Gen, M/M, Revolution, Tranquil, abuse survivors, mage war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-04-11
Updated: 2011-06-23
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:16:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suaine/pseuds/Suaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kirkwall is on fire and the Champion needs to get away, but escaping is easier said than done. Family can be found in the most unlikely places and Fenris learns the hard way that not all mages are alike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

One.

 _  
”Keep your wits about you, mage. True tests never end.”   
_   
~ Mouse

  
She looked wild and dangerous, with a staff that was two heads taller than her, blood and dirt crusted in her robes and hair. Hawke had templars on his heels and nowhere to go home to and here was this little girl staring him down, blocking his way to the docks and to freedom.

“Don’t come any closer,” she said, her voice shaking like a leaf in the wind. Behind her, the shadows moved, not the twisting and squirming of re-animated bones but the shiver of skin and sinew. It appeared that they had found the apprentices.

Hawke felt his stomach lurch almost painfully and tried to paste a smile on his face that didn’t look like he’d just slain the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander. He cursed himself for choosing his armor based on an aura of intimidation - it had made sense at the time and not just because it made Fenris stare at him when he thought no one was paying him any attention.

“I don’t mean you any harm,” he said in his most gentle of voices. And then, because he could not let this get out of hand, not with the only mages in all of Kirkwall who still had a claim to innocence, he added, “I’m like you. You can trust me.” He showed her the flash of light he’d learned as a neat trick when he was twelve and needed to read magic books under the bed covers after dark.

Her eyes got impossibly wider and within an instant she let go of her staff and crumpled to her knees. She looked up, tears in her eyes that she defiantly wiped away. “Please, sir, can you help us?”

By now, the others had arrived at his back, and Hawke felt the weight of their expectations on his shoulders. He reached out to her, not sure if he was going to pat her hair or give her a hand up, but the girl flinched away. From the shadows a boy even younger lunged at him, his little fists alight with magical fire, and pounded on his stomach. “Don’t touch her! Don’t touch her!”

Hawke took a step back, giving them both room. There were more children hiding in the darkness and he could see that the ferry would be cramped, but something told him they could not be left here. The templars under Cullen were perhaps not as unpredictable as they were before, but as a whole they had no love for mages and these kids had nothing to defend them against their cold steel and lyrium-powered abilities.

He turned to his friends, to Fenris, and looked at them all with a question that he couldn’t put into words. They had no guarantee that doing this was either right or good, but they’d trusted him with much larger things just moments ago. It felt like a lifetime. “What do you think?” He’d expected arguments, but Fenris... Fenris rolled his eyes and walked up to a tiny red-headed elf with the bluest eyes Hawke had ever seen and hoisted her onto his hip.

“What are we waiting for? The templars aren’t going to be spell-shocked for long.” 

Isabela knelt next to the girl, careful of her space, and with only a few whispered words the young mage threw her arms around Isabela’s neck. Hawke nodded at Isabela and turned his gaze to the boy who had attacked him and now stood frozen in place as if he was caught somewhere between fight and flight. “We’re going to leave soon and you’ve been very brave. It’s up to you if you want to come with us, but I think all your friends are coming.”

Indeed they were, as Hawke’s companions had begun to separate them into little groups and lead them to the water. There were so many of them. Hawke fought down the useless anger that would only lead to bad choices. Like unwittingly helping a friend to start a war. The boy nodded earnestly, his blond hair catching the light of the far-away fires, and held out his hand. His fingers were red, burned by the fire they had created. The sight sickened Hawke, more so because it pointed toward a neglect that no one else in the world would care about. Taken from their parents and locked into their cells, these children hadn’t even been _taught_.

But the worst was the sound of Anders’ voice as he called out. “Hawke, you should see this.” There was no rumbling of Justice in that voice, none of that righteous fury, just resignation and horror in equal measure.

Since the death of his mother, Hawke had considered himself fairly immune to the day to day awfulness that came with being a resident of Kirkwall, after all nothing could be worse than what had already happened. And now, after Orsino turned to blood magic and Meredith fell prey to ancient lyrium, it seemed that nothing could shock him. But Hawke had forgotten about petty, human cruelty. Anders was holding on to a teenage boy, maybe sixteen if that, just tall enough to be considered an adult, limbs too coltish to maintain the illusion for long. The symbol of the maker on his forehead was like a punch to the gut.

“By Andraste, this is why we can't have nice things.”

+

Isabela had offered the use of her ship as a getaway but with their new charges this was no longer an option. Hawke had a feeling his estate wouldn't be a safe place for long, if the templars hadn't already sent people there to capture them. So while the rest of them hid outside the city, he waited in the dingiest backroom of the Hanged Man together with Varric and Aveline. Donnic was coming to give them an update and possibly a proper talking-to. The situation in Kirkwall was chaotic at best, with fires still burning in the slums and rubble covering Hightown like a blanket, and most of it was their fault.

Aveline paced the length of the room. “I don't like waiting, Hawke.”

Even though he agreed, Hawke refused to give Aveline more reason to worry. “It will be fine. He's just being careful.”

“What if I've asked too much? I can't lose the guards, not even for you.”

Varric shook his head. “See, now that's unnecessarily fatalistic. These guards would follow you anywhere.”

Aveline sighed, crossing her arms. She still wore the uniform of the guard captain. “I know, I know. Maybe I just don't want to risk their lives in a pointless war.”

Hawke thought about their camp on the wounded coast, crowded with the mages they'd rescued from the Gallows. “I don't like to agree with Anders, but something had to be done and you know that as well as anyone. There hasn't been any peace for mages long before this.”

The door opened before Aveline could reply. They tensed, ready to kill if need be. A haunted-looking Donnic snuck into the room, all flustered activity and paranoia. Hawke relaxed fractionally at the brilliant smile Donnic directed at Aveline. The couple embraced, whispering to each other between small, private kisses. Hawke looked at Varric and they both grinned. Not too long ago, Hawke and Fenris had treated the entire group to a similar display, this was merely well-deserved payback.

“Donnic, if you’ve got a moment?”

Blushing, Donnic reluctantly stepped back from his wife and rubbed nervously at the nape of his neck. “Serrah.”

“We need to know what’s happening in the city right now,” Hawke said, feeling the familiar urgency rise up again. They were running out of time and everything else. “Some pressing matters need attention and I can’t do much from a cave on the beach.”

Donnic shook his head. “You probably shouldn’t be seen in Hightown. A lot of nobles want your head for bringing down property values and while Cullen has his hands full with a couple of Orlesian templars that just arrived, I believe his words were ‘if he shows up again it’s his own damn fault’.”

Hawke laughed. “A fugitive once again, I’ve been missing this.”

“Hawke,” Aveline said, a reprimand if he’s ever heard one. “Don’t make light of this. We’re wanted criminals now.”

“Ah,” Donnic said, “actually you’re not. Bran has been trying to keep the city together. He’s pushing for the election of a new Viscount and Cullen is happy to let someone else handle the politics. They offered to let you return, if you forswear all loyalty to Hawke.”

Hawke frowned at Aveline shaking her head. “You know I can’t do that, Donnic.”

“Maybe you can.” Hawke said, a small grin on his face. “I know you love the city more than me, who am I to stand in the way of happiness?”

Aveline crossed her arms, the unmistakable sign that she was about to disagree with Hawke. “I couldn’t and you know it. What if Cullen asks me where you are, where the mages are hiding? What if they order me to lead my guards against you?”

Hawke shrugged. “We’ll think of something. I will always need you, Aveline, but your place is here. Who else is going to protect the city from every slaver or thief with delusions of grandeur?”

“No one’s delusions are grander than yours, Hawke.” She was still angry with him, but a tiny smile worked its way onto her face. “Just be careful. What you’re doing right now, it’s more dangerous than anything we’ve encountered before.”

Donnic cleared his throat. “Speaking of dangerous, the Orleasians are going to want you and the mages dead. Cullen has been neutral so far, but his authority may be in question as soon as their main force arrives.”

“The army of the Divine,” Hawke said, a hint of dread running up his spine. “Well, I guess Sister Nightingale wasn’t kidding. That could be a problem.”

Varric, who had watched all this with uncharacteristic silence, coughed into his hand. “If I may suggest something?”

“Since when do you have to ask?”

Varric shot Hawke a quick grin. “The city is too hot for us, but it’s only going to get hotter. We should stock up before we go and lay low for a couple of weeks. The Hanged Man is as safe as we can get to exchange information if the need arises.”

Hawke blinked. “I don’t trust Corff with my drink order, that man couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended on it.”

“Why, yes,” Varric said, “that would be why we tell Norah. She, uh, owes me. And she’s got a cousin who’s a mage.”

Hawke clapped his hands together. “Alright then, I think we have the makings of a plan. Aveline makes sure the city is save and we try to keep these kids alive long enough for them to make their own bad decisions. I love a good challenge.”

Donnic’s eyes widened. “What kids?”

They all turned to him with questioning looks. It was Hawke who overcame his shock first. “The apprentices. The mages we have stashed away in our very secret location. Surely everyone is all up in arms about it.”

“There’s a bounty out for any mage that survived the massacre at the Gallows, but I don’t think they’ve mentioned anything about children.” Donnic looked a little pale all of a sudden.

Hawke shrugged. “The only people who care about mage children are usually the parents who were forced to give them up, if that. The circle keeps them well hidden until they’re ready to be useful and productive members of society. And when they’re not, they get turned into the living dead or killed outright.”

Donnic’s voice hitched as he spoke. “How can you be so calm about this?”

Calm was an interesting way to describe it. Hawke didn’t feel calm, he felt like he could tear the city apart if it healed the wounds done to the apprentices, but no magic was that powerful. What others had done to them could not be fixed, it could merely be endured, and perhaps prevented from happening again. It was a peculiar situation in which he found himself almost agreeing with Anders, if not his methods. “I’m not.”

Varric nodded. “He’s really not.”

Heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor just outside the door and everyone fell silent. Hawke backed up against the wall and waited for the door to open, but all he heard were drunkards yelling about speed gryphons and publishing contracts. He let himself relax, taking a breath that tasted like sour beer. Hanged Man, right.

“We should get going if we’re to make it back to the camp before nightfall.” Hawke turned to Aveline and smiled. “You should go home with your husband.”

With that cross expression she sometimes got when they were in particularly distasteful situations, Aveline stepped up to Hawke and for a moment he feared she would punch him. Instead, her arms almost squeezed the life out of him in a hug that felt a little like goodbye. “You will always be my friend, Hawke, don’t forget that. I’ll be here for you.” She sounded choked up. “Even if you are the most exasperating person I know.”

Hawke laughed. “Careful now, don’t want to make Donnic jealous.” They separated and Varric came up to shake Aveline’s hand, but she grabbed him, too, and now that Hawke could see her face he almost regretted saying anything. She looked devastated and lost. But then Donnic laid a hand on her shoulder and she lightened up considerably. It was alright. They’d all get out of this somehow, and at least his oldest friend was going to be reasonably safe. That was something.

“Let’s go, Varric, we have a lot of provisions to steal before dark!”

Aveline yelled after him as he slipped out the door and into the shadows of the unlit corridor. “I heard that, Hawke!”

+

Hawke trusted Varric’s sense of direction enough that he was deep in thought while they made their way to the camp. Kirkwall was lost to them, at least for now. Between the Orlesian templars and the bounty hunters, they were better off staying in the mountains and trying to live off what the forest could provide. Supply runs would be unavoidable but should be kept to a minimum.

The problem of the mages remained. Bethany had been an easy, quiet child, with a strength of character that had tempered her powers even as they grew to rival Hawke’s own. His father had been so proud of her, never afraid. Hawke, on the other hand, had been head-strong and rebellious and often stupid. He knew first hand how fast a child could become a danger to himself and others.

And he had three dozen of them to keep safe, from demons, from each other and from the world.

“There’s light ahead,” Varric said, slightly breathless. “But that’s no campfire I’ve ever seen.”

It wasn’t a campfire at all. Hawke recognized the color and the feel of it, a magical fire that had a soothing effect like a lullaby. He’d used it on the twins when they were babies. Re-shouldering his pack, he hastened his steps and broke through the undergrowth to find a scene he could not have expected.

“Well, this is new.”

Varric stood beside him, momentarily silent; a novelty he’d have to remember. Then he caught himself. “I’d say.”

Hawke wasn’t sure what to do, but announcing himself seemed rude and likely to break the moment. Instead he whispered to Varric. “What do you think they’re talking about?”

Varric shook his head. “I’d hate to speculate. Certainly doesn’t look like a lecture on the dangers of magic from here.”

And it didn’t. Fenris had the tiny elven mage on his lap, curled up in one of their softer blankets, and Audrey, the girl who had held them up like a highwayman on their way out of the Gallows, sat cross-legged in front of him with a shiny orb of magic between her palms. She was smiling and even though he could not see Fenris’ face from his position, Hawke thought his posture was oddly relaxed. Because of the lyrium in his skin, Fenris had a tendency to tense up over the course of a day and it usually took Hawke some serious effort to get him to unwind.

“Come now, Hawke, we should probably not be found gaping at them like a couple of old spinsters at a wedding.”

At the image of the two of them in formal dresses and big hats, gossiping about everyone and anyone unlucky enough to be caught in their gaze, Hawke broke into a wicked grin. “We would never hear the end of it, and deservedly so. No dress could do that magnificent chest hair justice.”

Varric raised an eyebrow, a question on his lips, but then he shook his head. “I don’t even want to know what’s going on in your head right now.”

“That’s probably wise,” Hawke said, but he was already walking toward the light.

Fenris noticed them before Audrey did, his hand grasping the knife at his belt. With the other hand he dislodged the sleeping child and handed her to Audrey, thereby extinguishing the gentle flame and soaking them all in darkness. For the span of a breath, the world seemed to hang in a delicate balance, waiting for the potential of violence to realise. Fenris had the blade at Hawke’s neck before he could so much as utter a word.

“Hawke,” Fenris said, already lowering the weapon.

Hawke laughed, a little embarrassed. “And hello to you, too. Nice night for a spot of murder between friends, isn’t it?”

Now that his eyes had once again grown accustomed to the darkness, Hawke could see the slight grin on Fenris’ face. They’d most likely never been in danger, but it was good to know that Fenris had things under control here at the camp.

“You should have called out,” Fenris said. “Two more steps and you would have walked in one of Isabela’s new traps. Kora helped her make them, they’re terribly efficient.”

Kora was one of the mage girls who had developed something like a crush when they’d heard of the adventures and freedom of the open sea. A life like Isabela’s had to strike some sense of the impossible in their minds, ignite the yearning of a prisoner for the open sky. Hawke could imagine what kind of power she might have put into impressing Isabela.

“Then I’m glad you have such fantastic ears,” Hawke said, a little breathless, but not from danger. He stepped into Fenris’ space so that their noses were almost touching and grinned. “Hey.”

Fenris rolled his eyes, but the answering grin on his face widened. “You are impossible, I don’t know why I put up with you.”

Hawke laughed and leaned in, stealing a too short kiss. “It’s because I’m irresistible and you really like that thing I do with my tongue.”

“I suppose that’s part of it,” Fenris said, deadpan. “Or maybe it is your stunning wit.” But his hands betrayed his true feelings, feather-light touches searching for invisible injuries. Fenris cupped Hawke’s neck gently, almost hesitantly, and kissed him with a fierce abandon that reminded Hawke of that last moment before Orsino went crazy. It was possession and reassurance at the same time.

“Hawke,” said Varric from somewhere far away, “I’m just going to take this stuff over to the camp. Don’t scar the children for life if you can help it.”

As it was, maybe he couldn’t. He would gladly drown in Fenris’ touch, never feel anything but this for the rest of his life, the way Fenris shivered when Hawke’s fingers grazed the lyrium veins in his skin, the small sounds of need neither of them could suppress. He could die like this and not regret a thing.

Hawke pulled back.

“Your new friend is watching us,” he said. “It’s late; she will need her strength tomorrow. She should get some sleep.”

Fenris huffed and rolled his eyes. “I’m not her nurse maid. Besides, I do not think she would appreciate being patronized. She can decide for herself.”

“She doesn’t want to go to sleep, does she?”

Fenris shook his head and there was something old and painful beneath the brittle smile. “There are more demons than just those of the Fade. She’ll be fine for now. Later, we may have to talk about it.” He spoke these last words as if they were poison. Hawke could relate, they were both rather terrible at expressing their feelings and Audrey did not seem to be much better at it. What a perfectly matched mess.

Hawke felt an urge to tease to deflect the tension of the moment. “I think you actually like her. And the little one, but who could possibly hate someone with eyes that big?”

“I-”

Fenris rubbed the back of his neck. He seemed nervous, but no longer chained to his previous crippling anger. Perhaps the kids were having some kind of effect on him. “I haven’t met many mages like this before. Audrey is stronger than any child should ever need to be; they all are.”

Hawke smiled, sparing a thought for Bethany and her calm, quiet nature. For a moment he missed his sister so much it was an almost physical pain. “They have to be, Fenris. That’s all we’re any good at, really. We endure or we die, it isn’t much of a choice.”

“I just thought,” Fenris began, but something seemed to stop him. “Ah, it doesn’t matter. I will tell you later.”

Hawke frowned at Fenris’ retreating back. “What’s going on in that stubborn head of yours, lemman?” It was a word that Fenris only whispered, sometimes, in moments when he appeared to be sure that neither Hawke nor anyone else could possibly hear him, late at night and private. It was a word that meant more than just love, more than friend or companion. Hawke thought, in their own way, they had sworn something without actually discussing it, and using the Tevinter endearment, even if only to himself, felt like a promise.


	2. Chapter 2

Two.

 _The untested apprentices are the most numerous denizens of any tower, but they more often pose threats to themselves, due to their lack of training, than to anyone else._

~ Knight-Commander Serain

 

Fenris stalked toward the two young mages, unspecific anger and dread curling in his stomach. Sometimes Hawke’s flippant nature annoyed him more than Hawke’s magic - at least magic had its uses - but this dark mood had come only coincidentally in Hawke’s presence, not because of it. Thoughts of the conversation with Audrey lingered, the things that had been done to her echoed some of the more creative ways Danarius had maintained his mastery over him.

The girl sat where he’d left her, lost in thought, as far away as Fenris often felt when his skin ached with the memory of the ritual. He did not touch her, but his presence was enough to rouse her out of her dark contemplation.

“I don’t understand how you can stand to let him touch you,” she said. Her eyes gleamed in the darkness; she had not tried to rekindle the gentle magical flame she’d created so joyfully earlier and there was something almost feral in her face. He knew the feeling well.

And yet Fenris, when thinking of Hawke, could barely understand how there had been a time when he didn’t want to be touched. When they were together it felt like the world had laid itself to rest, all its turmoil quieted and only the two of them awake in the dark. Life had returned to him in Hawke’s arms; he would not deny the gift.

“He is as far as one could be from my old master and still be a mage.” Fenris often told himself that because it was easier; Hawke was special, different, and as such not really a mage at all, just a man with as much power as he had control.

Audrey looked at the sleeping child in her arms. “A mage is always a mage first,” she said, her voice hollow and distant. “We have no families and no country, not even a race. We’re born without loyalty.” She shook her head. “That’s what the templars say at least. Perhaps it is easier for one who grew up with a mother who loved him.”

Of those things Fenris remembered, the glimpses of his mother and her warm smile were the strongest and most vivid. Ever since that first night with Hawke, Fenris had had a sense that he’d been loved as a child and had loved in return. The rush of emotion had unsettled him so that he’d made what could have been the worst mistake of his life, but it had grounded him in the knowledge that he had, at one point, been a happy child. For a slave. These children – these mages - had not even that much to hold on to.

“His mother was a magnificent woman,” Fenris said. Leandra had liked him a great deal and they’d occasionally talked even when Hawke had been out on business. Before Hadriana. Before Quentin.

Audrey tugged at the blanket around the little one. Fenris frowned. It would not do to have the child bear no name for very much longer. The other children had only ever heard her referred to as “that elf bastard” by the templars. “She sleeps a lot,” Audrey said as she carefully got up and handed her precious burden to Fenris. “I think there’s something wrong with her.” They walked toward the caves and tents that made up their makeshift home.

“Maybe she rests for both of you,” Fenris said.

“Maybe what rest I get is none of your concern,” Audrey snapped, but her eyes widened at her own audacity. She froze. “I-”

Fenris smiled bitterly. “No, I apologize. I had no right.”

“But you do,” she said. “Look at me, I’m this close to wailing like an infant. What kind of resistance could I put up against a demon if I am too afraid to even close my eyes?” She sounded close to tears, a desolate tone that sparked the hint of a memory in Fenris. Perhaps his sister had had reason to speak to him so, before the ritual had erased what love he had for her completely.

Fenris made no argument to soothe the girl, deep down he still believed that it was true, didn't he? All mages were weak, always on the edge of giving in to temptation. Except for Hawke - who’d faced temptation down like a mule faced a river countless times - every mage had that essential weakness of heart. Or perhaps no one but the most exceptional people, mage or no mage, were ever strong enough to take the harder path when easy solutions lay directly in front of them and mages were just more of a target and more of a boon for the creatures of the Fade.

“I do not know what to tell you,” he said. “I won't force you to do anything you don't wish to do. It may be the only freedom open to you and you deserve to hold on to it. I can only promise that I will watch and I will kill you swiftly if the demons ever take you.”

Audrey shuddered, a hand cupping her throat protectively. Then she nodded. “That's terrible, but at least you're honest. Thank you.”

She took the sleeping child from Fenris as they arrived at the campsite and did not meet his eyes, but there was a renewed vigor in her movements, something undefeated. He wanted to tell her that he would listen any time she needed to speak of what had happened at the Gallows, what had continued to happen for years without anyone willing to intervene. He didn't know how, so he watched her go, wondering once again how he could feel such compassion for her and such hate for what she was and not go mad with the strain of it.

“You know what's funny?” Fenris jumped, torn away from his paradoxical thoughts. Hawke had stepped from the shadows like a rogue out for blood. It always surprised him how Hawke could elude him so when his presence, once he noticed, felt like a burning beacon in the night.

With his arms crossed and a frown marring his face, Hawke looked a bit like Aveline on one of their less than legal adventures. “If they'd been in any other Circle they'd probably be a lot safer locked up than they are now.” Hawke's eyes seemed unfocused. “They are more likely to set themselves on fire from a nightmare than they are of attracting a demon.”

Fenris saw the cave on fire in his mind, coughing, screaming, burning children and no way out, smoke choking them to death if they were lucky. “That's not funny.”

Hawke shook his head. “No, I guess it's not. The Circle was supposed to be a refuge, once upon a time, to protect and teach. But these children had no training and they certainly weren't safe.”

“You did the right thing,” Fenris said, and believed it.

Sighing, Hawke forced a smile on his face. There was pain underneath it, but sometimes just trying to convince himself and everyone around him for long enough could make the pretense real. “I know, it just isn't _enough_.”

What could Fenris possibly say to that? He didn't care about the plight of the mages outside Tevinter, and actively wanted to destroy the magisters if he ever got a chance. The only reason why he hadn't at one point turned Hawke in to the templars was equal measures force of personality and his own apathy. He cared little for things outside his own pain and anger, or used to, until Hawke dragged him along to do the right thing. Here and now, these particular mages at least had not been corrupted beyond their nature.

“No one can save the world from itself, Hawke. If you keep trying you will break yourself upon it. And I would rather see you alive, if it's all the same.” He had gotten better at saying what he felt, even if it sounded overly romantic to his own ears.

Hawke kissed him, fingers tangled in his hair, making small, needy sounds that would break Fenris' heart if he didn't know that what Hawke needed was no more than what he could give. “I don't know what I would do without you,” Hawke said, with such a plaintive tone that Fenris wondered if maybe there was still some lingering doubt from that time he'd refused to let anything more than friendship exist between them. He'd always thought of it as a kind of punishment, a self-flagellation, and had no real basis to judge someone else's broken heart. It hadn't occurred to him at the time that Hawke could be as broken up about it as he'd been.

“I'm not going anywhere, lemman.” He whispered the words like a prayer, but the hitch in Hawke's breath told him they were heard and understood.

“I-” Hawke began, but then he shook his head. “Oh, I actually came to drag you to the fire and here I am getting all emotional. We've brought wine.”

Fenris grimaced. “Wine from the Hanged Man? I am not that desperate.”

Hawke's habitual half-smug expression caused Fenris' heart to skip a beat. An old, nasty voice inside his head piped up with a derogatory examination of his status as someone's pet but Fenris couldn't help the answering grin. Perhaps he'd submitted to Hawke in ways that still echoed his time as a slave, but it had always been his choice and that made all the difference.

+

“What I don't understand,” Isabela said as she took another long swallow from the sour wine, “is why we can't just pack them all on my ship and head to sea. There are so many places to go, they'd be safe, and we wouldn't be talking about breaking into the Gallows. Not that I mind a little breaking and entering, just making a point.”

Hawke took the wine from her with a half-disgusted expression, shuddering lightly before taking a sip and probably drunk enough not to care overmuch. “The problem, oh Captain, is that we've started a religious war in the eyes of the Chantry, and they won't just give up because they prefer solid ground under their feet. With the phylacteries, even if just one remains, they will always find us. I mean, we could always invite them to join us in the pirate life, but I don't think a boat and a chance at scurvy is enough of a draw to make them deny their vows.”

Isabela made a face. “It's stupid, that's what.”

“Maybe,” Fenris said, “but it is what it is. For now, Knight-Commander Cullen sounds inclined to let us be, as long as we stay hidden, but the armies of the Divine know no mercy. They will find us, and when they do, they will not hesitate to kill us all.”

Hawke glanced at him and Fenris felt that familiar warmth between them as their fingers touched and intertwined. They rarely agreed when it came to the finer points of mages and their freedoms, but Fenris would do anything to keep this man safe. Including the storming of a templar stronghold with nothing but a sword and a prayer.

“With a little luck,” Hawke said, “we can convince Carver to help, but if he's being his usual stubborn self, we should try something new, like subtlety.”

Anders, who sat across the fire with as much distance between him and Hawke as he could manage, choked down a cough that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Something had shifted in him since the explosion that had changed the course of all their lives forever, and Fenris had a feeling that for the first time they actually saw the man he used to be. The mage did not yet dare to make light of what he'd done, however, and so he did not speak out against Hawke's obvious jab.

“Are you suggesting we sneak into the Gallows like thieves in the night? Not that we'd be stealing anything, of course.” Merrill, too, seemed to have settled into new confidence. She wasn't as easily flustered and maybe her loss had made her more careful. Perhaps there was some hope for her yet, unlikely as that was. But Hawke had a strange effect on people, even those who believed themselves lost.

Hawke ducked his head and squeezed Fenris' hand as a warning of sorts that he was about to say something incredibly stupid. “Remember what I said about subtlety? I think it should just be me.”

There was an expectant silence as all eyes turned to Fenris. He had no idea when he had become the official foil for Hawke's more outrageous notions, especially those concerning his self-sacrificial tendencies, but he shouldered the responsibility gladly. “You're being funny again, aren't you?”

“Look, I mean it. There is no fighting to be done anyway. One doesn't simply walk into the Gallows, we have to be as unnoticeable as possible. I can cast some kind of disguising spell on myself.”

Fenris considered the logic of it for all of two beats of his heart. “No.”

“But-”

Isabela interrupted Hawke's further pathetic attempt at argument. “Remember that time you tried to unlock the back door of your estate when you forgot your key and didn't want to wake Bodhan or your mother?”

Varric laughed. “I had to pick splinters out of my chest hair for hours!”

Fenris remembered that night as well. It had been during that ridiculous month between their first night together and Leandra's murder. Hawke had been pretending that everything was fine by being terribly polite and Fenris had taken to brooding on his own, but that night they'd argued about something silly and gotten gloriously drunk on the swill they served at the Hanged Man. Hawke had touched him constantly, just little unconscious grazes, and the agonizing pleasure of it had driven Fenris almost insane. And yet, they had somehow come out of it with a kind of equilibrium. Perhaps it had been the sight of Hawke sitting in the wreckage of his exploded door with a sheepish expression that had done it, but afterward they'd been friends again, if a little wistful at the unspoken potential between them. Perhaps it had been the realization that nothing, not his hatred for Danarius nor his desire to regain his old life, could come close to what Fenris felt for Hawke.

“That was only because I was drunk,” Hawke said, a little petulant. Fenris knew from experience that Hawke had already given up on his original plan. He just liked to wind people up if he could; it was a terrible burden.

“No, my friend,” Varric said with a grin, waving his fingers in the air. “It was because you are all flash and no finesse. The art of picking a lock is beyond you.”

“I could pick a lock; I have picked locks before; I am a lock-picking champion,” Hawke said.

Isabela threw a piece of bread at his head. “Moody's chastity belt does so not count.”

“Hey!” Fenris glared at her. He had half a mind to be angry with her, but then Hawke tightened the fingers around his hand and Fenris forgot to be offended. Hawke had that soft, vulnerable expression again, the one that could convince Fenris that the sky was bright yellow with purple dots and that fish could sing the chant of light.

Hawke leaned closer to him, still smiling secretly, as if he knew something amazing and could not wait to share it. He whispered in Fenris' ear, his breath raising the hair on Fenris skin. “If you ask me, it's the only one that matters.”

Fenris shuddered with the sudden urge to grab Hawke and do lewd things to him in front of their companions. “You have been practicing your flattery, haven't you? I still won't let you go to the Gallows without me.”

“I wouldn't dare,” Hawke said, a little more gruff than his usual easy humor, until he turned back to the fire and addressed the rest of them. That was typically Hawke. “Good, now that that's settled, Isabela. How about a little dungeon crawling in your old age?”

Isabela pumped her fist into the air. “Yes! I've got this new set of lock-picks I wanted to try out before, you know, someone blew up the city.” She sent Anders a hard glare that lacked a lot of her usual playfulness. Good.

Hawke shook his head, hiding a small indulgent smile. “I've got a bit of a mission for the rest of you as well, unless you've got plans.” Merrill and Anders both had no right to expect friendliness from Hawke for all they'd put him through, but Fenris was the bearer of that particular grudge – Hawke himself had a blind spot where his friends were concerned, one that Fenris himself had taken advantage of for years, and he seemed to be determined to give them a chance to prove their worth.

“Don't leave us in suspense now, Hawke,” Varric said.

“I think we all agree that we have neither the ability nor the right to keep these children longer than absolutely necessary, so I need you to find out which of them have parents who are willing and able to raise a mage in a safe environment. They have a right to grow up with people who love them.”

+

Her red hair glittered like rubies in the sunlight and he knew it was a dream because he loved her.

Varania grinned, a front tooth proudly missing, and set a blade of grass on fire - her newest trick. She was six years old and he thought she was the greatest sorceress of them all. Their mother told stories at night, of the great mage Andraste who loved the elves and set them free, but during the hot summer days Fenris knew that his sister would be even greater. She was the world to him.

“Leto,” she said as she twirled him around with the help of magic. He was already almost as tall as she was, if a little on the coltish side. “Push off with your mind, I know you can. Push!” She let him go, she let him go!

He didn't fall, not then. There was the faint buzz of magic in his blood. Nothing like her raw power, but a sense that he would not be hurt. The ground came at him with a lazy lurch, no danger at all, and she threw herself around his neck as he landed. She hugged him tightly and babbled excitedly into his ear.

“I knew you could do it,” she said.

There were tears in her eyes.

Fenris woke with the faint ache of someone else's loss. Hawke had splayed his limbs all over their shared space, a habit that should bother Fenris much more than it did. He should be guarding his own space jealously where he could, but ever since he'd found and lost his sister, Fenris had accepted, even sought out these invasions. It was a strange surrender and not something he liked to dwell on.

Hawke slept like a hung over dwarf, loud and hard to rouse, but Fenris knew every plane of his face, the small frowns and lined skin around the eyes, and he knew that Hawke would come aware at the slightest hint of danger. It surprised Fenris on occasion, this trust Hawke had in him, even knowing how much Fenris struggled with the magic at his command. Fenris reached out and traced the mark on Hawke's face, the only hint of an old revolt against his nature. It was nothing like the Dalish blood writing or the tattoos of the dwarven castes, just a reminder that there was always struggle for a mage, even in their time of rest. Hawke could never surrender, could never stop fighting, no matter how exhausted, or he would become that which he hated. It could not be an easy life.

And yet, Hawke, who had no desire for power and had been deeply embarrassed by the title of Champion thrown at him by a manipulative bunch of noble bastards, loved this magic inside him, looked upon it as a natural extension of his soul. Fenris sighed and shook his head. What little good came of magic was undone by those who used it to harm and the power-hungry mages were legion.

Outside the night smelled of bitter, brackish water and the hint of fire in the distance. Years on people would still remember these nights for the chaos and the uncertainty, the precipice of war. Fenris remembered this same feeling from Seheron, as the bodies of the Fog Warriors had caught flame in the cross-fire of Danarius' magic and his hope had crumbled into dust with them.

The camp was quiet, maybe a little too much so for almost fifty people cramped into small quarters. Fenris suspected there was magic at work here, if only the unconscious or benign. Isabela and Anders were on watch and he had no desire to disturb them, lest Anders thought it was an overture on his part to reduce hostilities between them. Fenris hated the man rather gleefully for being the worst possible example of a mage with good intentions doing terrible things.

Movement on the outskirts of the site caught his attention and set him on edge. Could be animals, but he doubted they'd get this close to the fire. He'd left his sword with Hawke but his survival had never depended on it. All he needed was the power under his skin.

He made his way to a line of trees and the tension of potential danger set his markings alight. No stealth for him, let them know he was coming. He had grown tired of hiding during his life in Kirkwall, even if the shadows had been much safer. There was a certain risk in living life the way it was meant to be lived and he'd learned that some of the rewards were worth it. He froze as he heard a sound, a low, mewling noise. There were no cats this far away from the city. Creeping closer, he could make out more small movements and a dash of color that reminded him of blood. He reached out to draw away the tree branch obscuring his vision, when a miniature fireball exploded in front of his face.

He yelled a harsh Tevinter curse and jumped back, ready to annihilate his attacker, but all there was in front of him was the small elven child, big eyes red from tears and tiny fists curled tightly against some inner light.

“Please,” she said, her lower lip wobbling with the effort to suppress her sobs. “Please. 'm sorry.”

Fenris knelt down and held out his hands. The child hid her glowing palms from him. “Don't hurt,” she said, shaking her head and sobbing freely now. “Don't hurt. 'm sorry.”

The lyrium markings pulsed as he fought down his conflicting emotions. He was angry, furious about the treatment these children had received, even as he resented their magical nature that facilitated the abuse. But he would not make himself a further cause for their misery.

“I'm not gong to hurt you, child.” He spoke as quietly as he could, as soothing as he knew how. “Come here, please.”

She trembled, but somehow she began to move - little shuffling steps toward him, against a resistance he could not see. Perhaps she was merely scared of him. Fenris forced himself to relax. What danger there was here didn't come from anything he could fight. She opened her hands, showing him the impossible light.

“Sorry,” she said, holding her hands higher, as if she could give them away. Her voice shook with the tears she tried so hard to keep back. Fenris felt some of his own resistance break. He took her into his arms and let her settle her burning hot palms on his neck, despite the pain flaring up from his markings. She wept quietly as he picked a path back to the cave where the other children slept.

Behind him there was a low whine and Fenris didn't need to turn around to know that the dog had finally found his charge. They'd put him to herding the kids in as unobtrusive a way as possible and if one of them happened to wander off it was only a matter of time until he found them. Together they trudged back to the camp.

Along the way, the girl got very quiet, touching his ear with one of her fingers. She traced the length of it once, twice, three times. “Papa,” she said, a whisper that was both a question and a eulogy. Fenris rubbed her back, unsure what else to do. It always calmed him when old memories threatened to do him under. She took a deep breath and sighed, leaning her head against his throat.

“'m sorry.”

Fenris stilled. It didn't matter what he believed, not even what he'd seen play out over and over again. Mages were dangerous, yes, he could feel the threat on his skin where her palms were burning, but this was wrong. Children taken like slaves, taught to hate themselves until they had nothing to live for and nothing to use against a demon, children like Audrey and this little girl, lost and alone and innocent of any crime.

“Maker help me,” he said under a surprised breath, “I do want to save you.”

She didn't hear, not then, but that would be alright. It was something he needed to hear himself say.


	3. Chapter 3

Three.

 _"Fire brings only destruction and pain. It forces those of us burdened with its care to walk a razor's edge between humanity and savagery. Eventually, we are torn apart."_  
~ Joeng Joeng, Avatar

 

Hawke walked along the deserted beach, his bare feet digging into the sand as cold waves rushed over his toes. Sunrise was maybe an hour away and already the sky began to lighten in the distance. The fires in Kirkwall had largely run their course; the city slept again, exhausted from the past few days. That it had only been days seemed unbelievable, that a week ago they had been sitting at the Hanged Man, laughing, almost impossible.

The quiet early morning soothed some of his anxiety. Hawke had grown doubtful about his choices in the wake of the Knight-Commander's death and he felt at a loss. The war could not be stopped and part of him felt responsible, but a larger part resented that he'd been forced to make the choice at all. Fenris, as wrong-headed as some of his beliefs were, had the right of it when it came to the potential danger of the mages. Hawke accepted, even enjoyed his nature, felt that the magic at his disposal was an inextricable part of him. It was, however, not a license to abuse or endanger others.

And how many mages, untrained and undefended, did it take to destroy someone's life? Just the one who couldn't or wouldn't control his powers. Whatever happened now, Hawke had put it in motion. It didn't even matter what Anders had done – Hawke should have known and he should have stopped him.

Hawke sighed. His mother would have noticed, she'd always been aware of his friends' needs more than he had. He missed his family fiercely and wished for a moment that he could have been someone else. Maybe if he'd been born without magic, or just a different kind of person, none of this would have happened. He knelt on one knee and picked up a flat stone slick from the tide. He tossed the stone as far as he could, careful not to let his magic interfere with its path. It bounced on the calm water several times and disappeared with a faint plop.

Behind him, a most familiar someone cleared his throat. “Hawke.”

Hawke didn't turn, just stared out at the sea. “Where do we go from here, then? I have no idea what we're doing. If I make a mistake now, it's not just my life in danger. How did I end up being that guy?”

Fenris put a hand on Hawke's shoulder. The warmth spread through him like healing magic, energizing his sore, tired muscles. He turned, unable to resist the pull that Fenris had on him. “It has never stopped you before,” Fenris said. “You do what you think is right, even if it puts you in impossible positions. It is in your nature.”

Hawke smiled, but he felt a dark, ragged thing under his skin. He conjured a small ball of fire and light in his left palm, far enough away that they could both see it from the corners of their eyes. It didn't matter, neither looked anywhere but at each other. He inclined his head toward the light. “So's that. Doesn't mean it's a good or healthy thing to be, right?”

Fenris grimaced. “Hawke, you are what you are.”

Hawke closed his hand into a fist, snuffing out the light. The magic tickled his skin and then it was gone, leaving nothing but empty space. He shook his head and rubbed his neck, giving Fenris a rueful smile. He wasn't normally this moody. “Forget it, I was just being an ass. I know how you feel about this; I shouldn't let my frustration out on you.”

“But you should be able to, if you need it. Isn't that part of-” Fenris made a fluttery gesture between them.

Hawke grinned. “You mean part of hand puppet theater?”

“I think I liked you better when you were serious,” Fenris said, but the grin belied his words. It was an odd twist of luck that Hawke's terrible jokes struck something real in Fenris. They rarely discussed their feelings, but then it hardly seemed necessary, except for those times when they were both determined to be idiots for three years and needed a catalyst of epic proportions to get the words out. With Hawke and Fenris these things just happened.

“I am never serious,” Hawke said with a laugh. An idea struck him and he grabbed Fenris' hand. That he was allowed, without needing to ask permission, was still new enough to give him a little thrill.

“Hawke? You have that look on your face again.”

Hawke cocked his head. “What look would that be?”

Fenris dug his heels in, but did not retract his hand. “The look that ends with me embarrassing myself in public, or you doing it for me.”

Hawke shrugged, but inside he felt giddy like a child. “There's no one here, how bad could it be?”

“I make it a point not to ask that question anymore.”

“Come now, do you trust me?”

Fenris rolled his eyes. It was no longer a real question between them. “You know I do.”

Hawke smiled, warmth blooming in his chest. “I do know.”

“Then what-” Hawke interrupted Fenris with a small kiss on the lips, just a promise of more to come.

Hawke made short work of Fenris' tunic and trousers, perhaps using a little bit of magic to assist him, but mostly just the deft, practiced hands of someone who knew the layout of Fenris' body nearly as well as his own. In only his underclothes, Fenris looked a fair bit younger than he was and Hawke smiled.

“How well do you swim?” He asked as he took off his own robe and boots.

Fenris glanced at the dark surface of the water, a frown on his face that meant he was calculating the appropriate level of condescension for his answer. Anyone on the run had to learn to swim, just as they learned to hunt and to kill. Fugitives could not afford to have water as their enemy. Hawke knew that and Fenris, well, he would likely never admit to a little apprehension.

“Passably,” Fenris said, some confusion furrowing his brow. Hawke tapped the spot with his finger.

“Don't look like I'm about to ask you to hug Anders.”

Fenris chuckled darkly. “It would be cruel to make him believe he had been forgiven only to let me rip out his heart through his spine.”

Hawke grimaced. “There's that. But truly, when have I ever made you do something you didn't want to do? As if I even could.”

“Hawke, I am continuously impressed by your ability to miss the obvious.” Fenris' voice had a dark thread through it that made Hawke shiver, but the tiny smile curling the edge of his mouth made it the delicious kind. Fenris put a hand on the back of Hawke's neck, pulling them close enough that their noses were touching. “If you were to command me, I would laugh in your face, but you never do. That is why I follow you when you ask, every time.”

Hawke swallowed against a sudden obstruction in his throat. Sometimes Fenris just came out with these ridiculous statements, full of pathos and devotion, and Hawke felt both utterly charmed and a little terrified by them. It wasn't that he didn't feel the same way, he'd do just about anything to keep Fenris safe and make him happy, but how could a man measure up to that kind of expectation? How could he be worthy of that?

Hawke rolled his eyes at himself and grinned. “Come on, all I want to do is go swimming with you. It's hardly a deadly mission of doom.”

Fenris cocked his head. “With you, I am never sure.”

“Ah, but that's why you love me, it's a great big adventure.”

Fenris ducked his head and coughed. “Hawke, I-” But then he looked up with that burning intensity in his eyes. Before there were any more words there was the sudden rush of water and the world turning on its head. For a moment, Hawke did not know where he was or what had happened, but the soft blue glow of Fenris' markings in the water beside him soothed his panic and calmed him enough to stop any struggling. He let the water take him and pop him to the surface.

“You fiend,” Hawke said, laughing between coughs of nearly swallowed water. “And here I thought you were afraid of getting your feet wet.”

Fenris grinned at him, his cupped, glowing hands ready to splash Hawke. “I don't fear anything.”

“Is that so?” Hawke felt the playful mood that sometimes sparked between them and he let his magic loose into the water, shaping it to his will. Fenris stilled for a moment, but he did not flinch and didn't tell Hawke to stop. Before Hawke could be smug about that small victory, Fenris dowsed him with a tidal wave.

Hawke spluttered and laughed. “Did you just... why, Fenris, I didn't know you had it in you.” He smirked and used a hand of semi-solid, very wet water to pat Fenris on the head.

“This means war, my friend.” Fenris said and dove under.

+

Sunrise found them curled against each other, drowsing on the beach just above the water. Sand had made its way into all kinds of uncomfortable places, but Hawke felt oddly content. He couldn't feel his arm where it lay under Fenris, who had quite some weight on him for an elf, and his back hurt from a stone digging into tender places. He still felt the ghost of another world on his skin, one that was kinder, where the people he loved were all alive and mostly happy and mage rights were not really his problem, but he no longer entertained the notion that it was his fault for not being the right kind of person at the right time. The world could also be a lot more cruel, a lot darker than it was now. Heroes, as miserable as their lot in life was, could end up happy enough here.

He ran his right hand through Fenris' hair because he could and because Fenris made a sound like a satisfied kitten when he did. Hawke grinned, looking at the last fading star above them.

“My father once told me that the stars never change.”

Fenris huffed, a little put out, perhaps, to have to talk about mages again if only tangentially, but then all his conversations with Hawke ultimately involved at least one of them, so Hawke figured he might as well get used to the idea.

Fenris looked up. “The constellations aren't the same in Tevinter, and I hear the Qunari find our night skies to be supremely irritating.”

Hawke thought of the Arishok looking at unfamiliar stars for guidance. That might explain a couple of things, actually. “But that's just it. The stars are the same whether we can see them or not, it's only our perspective that changes.”

Fenris propped himself up, with his forearms on either side of Hawke's chest. He was no longer looking at the sky. “Are you trying to tell me something, Hawke? You should warn me if you intend to be subtle.”

Hawke sighed. “Nothing. It was just something I remembered. All the years he spent with us, I never really knew my father.”

“I don't remember anything about my father.” Fenris seemed to look through Hawke, staring into a different time altogether. “I don't think I ever knew him, not even before the ritual.”

Hawke thought about his own parents and the one thing he'd always known about them, namely that he and his siblings were loved and free to be whatever they wanted to be. Only much later, well into his life in Kirkwall, had he realized how rare of a gift that had been. And now it was too late to thank either of them.

Fenris kissed him, nipping at his lower lip, and Hawke smiled. They had each other and the rest of their companions – maybe it wasn't what they'd expected out of life, but it was good. It was family.

“I must say I'm loath to break up this little show, but if you two could hurry it up a bit, we need to get going.” Isabela's voice carried a leer more filthy and lecherous than any pervert's gaze. It was only one of the many reasons why Hawke adored her.

He grinned up at Fenris, who rolled his eyes so thoroughly it was hard to believe he could ever be cross at all, not to mention the one to out-brood even Anders on his bad days. “I'd suggest a race to get dressed, but you are the undisputed master of the art.”

Fenris growled. “I have apologized for that many times.”

Hawke laughed as he shook the sand out of his left boot. “And I have promised to hold it over you until we are both far too old to remember.”

“That is true,” Fenris said, shaking the sand off his tunic in Hawke's direction. His expression was one of fond exasperation. “And I will hold you to it.”

“On second thought,” Isabela added from ten feet away, her back turned to them more out of a playful sense of mockery than concern for anyone's modesty. “Why don't we skip the clothes and just get on with the mission. I do believe those templars could use some carnal delight and showing some skin to the starving masses can sometimes work wonders.”

Hawke met her eyes as she peeked over her shoulder. “Of course you would know about that.”

Her pleased smile made him feel all fuzzy inside. They'd always had a connection forged through a shared desire for freedom and the love of a bad joke. “I do, how did you guess? Was it the pamphlet for a pantsless lifestyle?”

Fenris chuckled. “That's one of yours? And here I thought it was Anders advocating his 'freedom' robes as a symbol of the revolution. I burned it, sorry about that.”

Isabela snorted. “Oh, I'm sure you are.”

Hawke shrugged into his armor and cheated at the buckles by doing them up with magic. It was the next best thing to having Fenris do it for him, but they were a bit short on time and occasionally they would have to redo the whole thing twice. With his clothes he also shouldered the mantle of responsibility once again.

“Has the camp been broken down yet? I want Merrill and Anders to get going before we leave so we can cover their tracks.”

Isabela caught the shift in mood and rolled her eyes. “They will be fine, you know. The kids can mostly pull their own weight and if that spirit in Anders' head is good for anything it's protecting people.”

Hawke nodded and began the trek up to their camp. At a good hundred paces off the site, Hawke could hear the excited buzz of a large group of people working together. The laughter of children made his chest hurt for a moment. Then the sound of Anders' voice trying and failing to keep order brought a grin to his face. Hawke wasn't a vindictive person, but it was extremely satisfying to see Anders so out of his element, no longer quite so certain about how things should be. They were all in agreement that the apprentices were better off away from the Gallows, but dealing with this many shrieking, excited, curious tiny people with little self-control and less self-consciousness brought the righteous crusader to his limits.

They came upon a site of utter, joyful chaos. Merrill had two small mages hanging on to her legs and a third perched on her arms, with tiny limbs flailing. Kora and Audrey were folding tent canvas as two boys looked on with mischief in their eyes and magic sparkling in the air around them. Varric conducted a whole group of small boys and girls as they brought all the odds and ends out of the cave and piled them on a small hill of knick-knacks. As little as any of them still possessed, the small things added up.

“It appears we're just in time,” Fenris said. He sounded amused and Hawke couldn't resist an answering grin.

“I don't know, it looks like they're perfectly capable of handling themselves.”

Fenris laughed. “I can see that. Especially the ones currently setting fire to the underbrush.” There was something strange about Fenris as he said it but Hawke couldn't put his finger on why. He was too busy containing the flames.

Hawke called out to Varric and suddenly a flurry of small limbs and bright smiles headed their way. They were overwhelmed by squeals of laughter. To Hawke's surprise, and likely his own, Fenris knelt down and let the kids climb all over him, a warm expression on his face. Hawke picked up the small elf girl when she tugged at his hands while Isabella excused herself with a nod toward Merrill and a wicked grin.

“Hey,” he said to the little mage, “have you been good?”

The girl scrunched up her face and laughed, then she buried her face in the bunched fabric of Hawke's tunic around his neck. Audrey had noticed them and given Kora quiet instructions, and now she was coming toward them with a frown marring her face.

“You're back,” she said. It sounded like an accusation.

Hawke bit his lower lip and shook his head, a little embarrassed to be called out. “I needed a few moments to myself.”

Audrey raised one eye-brow, looking for all the world like Aveline at her most judgmental. “Right. With him.” She nodded toward Fenris who was too occupied to notice the sharp words.

It took Hawke a moment to place the tone, then he remembered how Bethany, all of eleven years old, had once tried to defend his honor. She'd all but threatened to curse the girl who'd taken an aggressive interest in him, much to everyone else's chagrin. It had been that night, long after their parents had assured the girl that Bethany was completely harmless - no magic in this here house, no Messere – that Hawke had told her about the boy he liked, the one who wanted to be a Templar.

“Yes,” he said. “We went for a bit of a swim.” He left the rest unsaid, he didn't need to justify himself. Fenris, of course, would make his own choices.

Audrey nodded. “We're almost ready,” she said. “Where would you have us go?”

“Varric will explain when it's time. I won't actually know where you are, none of us will, in case we're captured.”

“It makes sense,” she said, her face dark and unreadable. “But I don't like it.”

Hawke met Fenris' eyes over the flurry of children still clinging to them both. Fenris shook his head in gentle warning, but Hawke grinned regardless. “I promise you, we have done things far more stupid and reckless than this and we're still here. Just ask Fenris, he's developed a permanent twitch in his face from all the things I put him through.”

“That is not actually very reassuring,” Audrey said, but her face had lost that pinched look and her stance relaxed noticeably. Mission accomplished. Fenris, however, stood up and punched him lightly on the shoulder. Hawke rubbed the spot all the while grinning sheepishly at Fenris.

“I deserved that, didn't I?”

Fenris shook his head. “You deserve so much more, Hawke.” He wasn't quite sure if that was supposed to be a threat or a promise, but the glint in Fenris' eyes made him think it was something good no matter what.

“Well then,” Audrey said, her gaze trained on something beyond Hawke's right shoulder. “I suppose I should wish you luck.”

Hawke smiled. “Thank you, I appreciate the thought.”

Audrey coughed and Hawke could see the struggle in her eyes. He didn't dare say anything for fear of spooking her out of the moment. “Just don't get killed, yeah? I- we owe you a lot. The kids, they're happier than I've ever seen them.”

In a rush of misplaced guilt Hawke understood how hard it had to be for Audrey to accept anyone who dared to try and save her, when it had already been too late. Hawke wasn't responsible for what had happened but he had certainly enjoyed the freedom of his gilded cage and thought mostly of his own safety until Orsino and Meredith had forced his hand. But at least he was there now and would do what it took to protect the mages from any further abuse.

Or he would die trying.

+

The specter of the Gallows loomed like an accusation on their way back to the city. The tunnels that lead from Darktown to the extensive net of dungeons were still intact, if magically sealed. Word had been sent to Carver and hopefully the magical locks would not be a problem. Still, Hawke had a few ideas about how to get through tightened security, a rod of fire could probably handle most of what they would face.

“You know,” Isabela said as she lead them through the moldy underbelly of their erstwhile home, “I really don't know how we get into these things. I should be sailing back to Rivain right now, with a crew that worships me and a backpack full of gold.”

Hawke shared a grin with Fenris, who only rolled his eyes and fell back a bit to cover their rear. “It's that pesky conscience again, you really should get that seen to.” The hand he used to follow the tunnel wall suddenly landed in something slimy and cold. He squeaked a bit and jumped back, barreling right into Fenris, who lit up like a startled firefly.

“Whoa, you men are terrible at this stealth thing,” Isabela hissed, a little frantic. “There are some traps ahead I'm going to disable, you two do not move until I tell you. It's for the best.”

After that it was smooth sailing until they made it to the freshly sealed dungeon entrance. Isabela frowned at the seamless piece of wall where a door should be. “Hawke, this is so not my expertise. It's a bloody wall.”

Hawke contemplated the wall for a moment when it hit him. Templars talked a lot about the evils of magic, but they were the ones to benefit the most. They controlled the mages and bent them to their will. He reached out to touch the wall and found nothing in his way, a mere glamor that any templar could throw up with the help of a couple of lyrium potions and a bit of self-flagellation.

“Let's see what's behind door number one, shall we?”

As it turned out, behind door number one were doors two to twenty-three and that's when Hawke stopped counting. The dungeons were a sprawling maze and he'd gotten lost about eight corridors back, but he knew they'd find something other than old cells and abandoned cellars if only they pushed on. They had to.

“Hawke, something isn't right here – it feels like one of those demonic tombs you're so fond of excavating.” Isabela's innuendo fell flat in the hollow echo of the empty corridor. There was no dust to disturb.

They moved methodically forward, further into the bowels of this magical prison, until Hawke stopped in front of an ordinary door. “It's here,” he said, suddenly afraid of speaking too loudly in case it might alert some sort of guard. “The phylacteries are behind this door.”

Hawke had not expected an ordinary room stacked high with ordinary shelves, a room cold enough to fog his breath, but by no means supernaturally icy. Something about the eerily mundane setup made Hawke's skin crawl. “You should look for any paperwork related to the apprentices, maybe we can figure out where they belong.” Fenris made a choked sound at that, as if the idea of paperwork filled him with horror.

“How do we destroy the phylacteries then?” Isabela wore a haunted expression and rubbed her crossed arms for more than just the cold.

“And are we sure that's what we really want to do?” Fenris looked paler than usual, a fierceness around his mouth.

Hawke should reassure them, explain calmly that this was for the best and they'd deal with the fallout later. He knew they could handle it, if anything did come up, and of course he'd thought of the implications – these were the phylacteries of everyone in the circle, apprentices and mages and enchanters, everyone including people as dangerous as Quention or Evelina. He should be rational about this but a burning, twisted anger rose inside him and it was a struggle to hold his power in check.

“We burn them,” he said. His voice had the quality of a forest fire, the crackling, destructive energy that came with heat and smoke and lots of kindling.

“Hawke-” Fenris made a last attempt, and this time Hawke's anger galvanized. His skin sparked with fiery red and he took a step further into the room, closer to the tool of the mages' oppression.

He touched one of the vials and the contents began to bubble furiously, the glass cracking with a pathetic pop. Something hit his cheek, a sharp, localized pain, but Hawke had no patience for small obstacles. This whole room reeked of old blood and lost hope.

“Look if you can find anything worth holding on to and then get out. There won't be anything to search much longer.”

Isabela nodded and turned away, running her eyes over hundreds and thousands of little vials. Hawke had a feeling there weren't half that many mages alive in Thedas right now. The templars had kept every old vial, possibly on the off-chance that a powerful mage would come back from the dead to cause trouble, or maybe they just liked looking at old trophies. Fenris looked caught between his own anger and a desperation that Hawke only knew too well. It was the feeling one got when one's lover was about to do something particularly stupid and dangerous.

Hawke grinned, his feelings for Fenris a fierce, tight knot at the center of him where no fire could reach. “These are our slavers' manacles, Fenris. If we are to be safe this can not be allowed.”

“They were never yours, lemman.”

Hawke shook his head. “No, but they were my father's and they would have been mine if I had not been more use to the powerful in this city as a free agent. These are the chains of my people and they need to be broken.”

Fenris grimaced and turned away, calling over his shoulder. “You begin to sound like Anders. Take care that you do not become him.”

For a painful second Hawke wondered if this was another goodbye. If anything could tear them apart now, it would be this – this thing so intricately tied to Hawke's self, the very core of what made him who he was. Magic. Mages. His people, now, after years upon years of caring only for those closest to him and losing them anyway. He'd been trying so hard to hold everything together and he'd lost and lost again and this was something he owed not just the mages but himself.

He called the fire from deep in his belly, from his anger and his passion and his fear. It burst from his fingers and enveloped the room and the pop and crackle of breaking glass, the hiss of the evaporating blood, was a mere background to the thunderous roar of purifying flame. He raised his power toward the ceiling and let gravity and flame become a falling anvil of pure energy, crushing the phylacteries into ashes. Hawke felt the swirling inferno on his skin and in his lungs, but once unleashed the fire would not be controlled easily. It lashed at him and licked over his robes, igniting the leather and fur and melting the steel. For too long he saw nothing but destruction and could not close his eyes.

As the heavy shelves crumbled to ruin he noticed a small, steel-bound chest under the debris. The old, polished wood had blackened but not burned and the latches gleamed white-hot; it looked to be fairly intact and the sight of something, anything, withstanding what he'd brought about made him pause and lose some of his concentration. The flames did not relent, however, and came upon him with uncaring determination.

Hawke gathered his mind and pressed the flames outward in a small, shaky bubble, not quite enough to keep his right arm from getting a little burned or his hair from getting singed, but he survived and managed to stabilize the hungry element around him. He focused his magic and sent the box flying toward the door, unsure if it contained anything breakable but too exhausted to care.

Once outside, Hawke leaned against the opposite wall and began to laugh. Everything came crashing down on him and he just couldn't-

“Oh no,” that was Isabela, her clear voice a welcome balm. Hawke tried to grin at her but could not remember how.

There were hands on him, feather-light and careful not to aggravate the small burns and cuts all over his chest and shoulders. Perhaps he'd gone a little far, certainly Fenris seemed to think so if the growling was any indication.

“You are a fool, a fool who loves the dramatic too much for his own good.”

At that, Hawke could do nothing but laugh, the tears were merely a setback. “Then we are a well-matched pair.”

“Indeed,” Fenris said as he put Hawke's arm over his shoulders and braced him for the walk back. “Now we just have to escape.”

“I think I can help with that.” Fenris stiffened against his side, but Hawke smiled, a huge, relieved grin that probably made him look daft.

“Carver.” His brother wore the templar uniform and appeared to be armed, but he was alone and carried a large pack and Hawke wanted to hug him and never let go. Carver strode over to them and took Hawke's other arm. Supported on both sides now, Hawke felt himself drift away, but not before he remembered.

“The box, uhm, could be important, we should go back...”

Isabela slipped passed them and checked the way ahead, holding up the box on the way. “Don't worry, love, we've got everything under control.”

Hawke nodded, a smile still playing around his lips as he sunk into the dark.


End file.
